


Damn fine booty.

by Cicerno



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, How Do I Tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerno/pseuds/Cicerno
Summary: The Last Dragonborn is neither Imperial or Stormcloak: Thalmor it is. And if that isn't enough, she's also determined to hook up again with the first emissary.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: this has been stuck in my head for days and i can't get it out. Enjoy the gay! An OC is going to appear as well - quite intensively, since imo Skyrim is lacking Thalmor. Anyways it's been seriously a while since i've written fanfic & english isn't my first language so forgive the occasional fuckup. My intent is to update this once in two weeks, but i'm not sure about that. **

* * *

 

> **HELGEN 4 E 201.**

Lorin glares at the filthy Nords in her carriage – she shouldn’t be here.  Especially since she’s an Ex-Thalmor and certainly not a Stormcloak.  _Fuck the imperial bureaucracy_ **.**  She’d been intent upon rejoining the Dominion in Skyrim (recruitment office in Cyrodiil had sent her here with a letter) and she even got a special permit from the Imperial Douane.

_Of course, those Nordic **fuckwits** didn’t even look at it. Illiterate perhaps? **Likely**._

Meanwhile, a Nord is being melancholic about his past in this tiny hamlet and she regrets having her hands bound – a punch in his face would’ve quieted him easily. Not to mention the whiny prick fearing death. Renewing your belief last minute doesn’t help.  _Men._

“Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.” She follows the Nord’s glance – and whistles.  _Elenwen_. _Looking good as always._   Well, she hadn’t expected _her_. How long has it been since she last met her? It must be more than twenty years. And that unexpected encounter had been limited to but a simple nod when passing each other.  

The Nord frowns – “I see no reason to whistle.”

“Ambassador Elenwen’s got some damn fine booty on her.” Lorin cracks a grin, deliberately ignoring the angry Stormcloak glares.

“You know **_her_**?” His voice is incredulous, eyebrows lifted.

“Yeah, I do – we met each other during our training as a justiciar.” What Lorin doesn’t say is that they were best friends, and **_more_** than that.

“By Talos!” Anger is compressed in an exclamation and the Nord spits in her direction. She shrugs and spits back.   

 _Finally,_ she can jump out of the cart.  The prick runs and dies. Which was expected, and served only as more delay to her opportunity to bullshit herself out of this.

“Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?” Nords aren’t exactly the most intelligent race – so much has become obvious during her short stay in Skyrim.  “Lorin Adaire, ex- Justiciar of the Aldmeri Dominion,” she declares confidently – seeing the scribe’s eyes widen. “Captain, she’s not on the list – what do we do?” 

“Forget the list, she goes to the block.” Her smile falls. _Imperial bureaucracy can suck my metaphorical dick._

“Halt!” a female voice rings out; one she distinctly recognizes as Elenwen’s. Seems like her ex (ex would be a big word – they never ended it, just went different paths) after all noticed her. “By my authority as Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim I demand this prisoner be transferred to me, along with her goods.” 

The man Ralof labeled as the Military Governor nods sharply to the Captain – who sighs and goes searching in one of the carriages for her elven armor and her money. Elenwen beckons her with one stiff gesture and orders her ties to be cut loose. Lorin dons the armor and raises a brow in question.  

“What the fuck is it you’re doing here, Adaire?” Elenwen’s sharp voice hisses into her ear, her eyes fixed on the execution block.

“What a frigid welcome, **_Madame Ambassador_**. Re-enlisting, of course.”

 “Last I knew you were **_whoring_** around in the Imperial city. Besides, shouldn’t you thank me?” The venom seeps from her voice, she certainly doesn’t take kindly to seeing Lorin.

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me? **_Control freak_**.”  Both turn to glare at each other, ‘till Lorin sarcastically adds, “Thanks.” 

“What in Oblivion is that?” Tullius screams and Lorin takes but one look to the sky to recognize she’s got to run. Sprint and sprint she does, never looking behind her – considering the fact she hasn't been torched yet as a good sign. Ultimately, she crashes on her knees in some other small town, exhausted. The moss on cobblestones is the last she sees before passing out. 


	2. Chapter 2

Lorin sits up, blinking – and sees a bunch of Nords crowded around her. “Were you at Helgen? Did you see the dragon? Where is it now? You need to go to the Jarl, tell him everything you’ve seen. Is my nephew safe? Don’t listen to that traitor, is **_my_** nephew safe?”

The volume in the room goes up by quite some decibels as they start to argue about politics and she has to push her hands against her head in order to prevent herself from getting a pounding headache. “In the name of Auri-El, **shut the fuck up!** ”

The room goes quiet. “Yes, I saw the dragon, and I have no **_fucking_** idea where it’s now or where your **_bloody_** nephews are! Just give me directions to the closest city!”

“Just follow the road, there are markings. Whiterun is the city you need,” a level, cool voice says, belonging to the innkeeper. Lorin’s eyebrows contort – she’s sure she’s seen that woman before, a long time ago, but she can’t recall when or where. “Just make sure you’ll warn the Jarl, we need guards.”

“Thanks. I’ll do.” She puts her armor back on, packs her belongings and tosses the innkeeper some Septims. Time to hit the road.

Skyrim’s silence allows her to think, process the events of today and her plans for the next few days. Getting to the Thalmor quarters in Markarth or Solitude was her initial plan – but this dragon crisis ruined it all. Not to mention the unexpected fact that Elenwen – frigid as ever - was going to be her boss if she enlisted again.

Her memories wander off to her training. Lots of alcohol, and lots of sex – Elenwen may have been a prudish workalcoholic, turns out once you got enough wine in her she was damn good in bed. Lorin wonders if she still is.

“ **For** **fuck’s sake**!” she kicks the wolf away, having been carried away by her thoughts. _Auri-El, Lorin, you shouldn’t be thinking of your commander without uniform. Pay attention to the road._ The wolf charges again and she runs her sword through the animal, cleaning it on the grass.

The hill reaches its end and in the distance, she sees Whiterun, a sinking sun looming over the city. Swinging her pack over the other shoulder, she recommences her travel – within the hour she arrives. It takes some time to persuade the guard to let her in – they’re taking this dragon business serious it seems. Now find the way to Dragonsreach.

Lorin doesn’t spot any mer faces in her proximity and before she knows she’s been spoken to. “Clan Battle-born or clan Gray-mane?”

“Neither.” And with that, she evades the question, ignoring the puffed-up asshole’s words about taking a side. Finally, she’s getting a gist of how to get to Dragonsreach, the Jarl’s keep, when another stranger, this time a Redguard, decides it’s time to talk to her. Amazing. “Do you get to the Cloud district often? Oh, what am I saying, of course you don’t.”

“I was going there,” she mutters, kicking him in the groin. He doubles over, and she smiles before striding away. “ **Nice to meet you!** ”

 

One long conversation about dragons later and a whole adventure in a ruin later, it turns out she’s the Last Dragonborn. _Great_. If only the Jarl didn’t have such a hot housecarl. Pity the housecarl turned out to be infatuated with the Jarl – entirely oblivious to this fact. Perhaps starting a relationship bureau wouldn’t be a bad idea, given her observant eye.

Go to High Hrothgar, the Jarl tells her when she busts in to demand her reward, before he starts lecturing her on Nordic culture. She’s glad she hasn’t mentioned her political alignment yet, feeling she’s going to need his aid sooner or later. The fact Whiterun’s been going its own course after Torygg’s death tells her it’s Jarl isn’t fond of either the Empire or the Stormcloaks.

 

So here she is, trudging her way up this fucking cold mountain. Her shoulder plate is broken and she’s sure she’s broken something else than the shoulder plate as well – thank an unexpected encounter (let’s say she was daydreaming about the emissary again) with a frost troll for that.

Lorin doesn’t knock on the door – she doesn’t have the fucking patience to knock – and simply stamps it open. Big is her surprise when an unruffled monk has been expecting her. “Maybe you should’ve come down the mountain,” she says sarcastically by way of greeting.

He ignores her. “So... a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.” “I’m answering your summons, **_master_**.” She rolls her eyes, bows with dramatic gesture. _For fuck’s sake, just tell me what you need and please be so kind to hurry up a bit._ He seems to take it serious however, “We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, Dragonborn.”

Initially, she doesn’t know what to do. It seems like they’re standing there for minutes, the situation becoming more and more awkward, until she gets her aha-moment. “FUS!” Frail as he may look, the greybeard isn’t knocked over by her shout – and leads her inside, informing her on her duties and other bullshit. First, he teaches her more shouts – which is cool, but then announces it’s time for meditating. Lorin doesn’t know whether she should to laugh or cry. During her training, she was criticized for losing her concentration too often.  

“I need to pee.” It’s the truth, her bladder’s about to explode – the only thing that has prevented her from falling asleep. None of the greybeards open their eyes, save for Arngeir. He throws her a singular glance, and she takes that as the opportunity to go to the loo.  When she returned, they rise, seemingly her bladder disturbed their precious meditation session. “Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is... astonishing. I'd heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself...”

Yeah, tell me what you need, **_asshole_**. “Thanks! What’s next?”

“You are now ready for your last trial. Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav. Remain true to the Way of the Voice, and you will return.” _I knew it._    

 

“ **FUUUUCK!!** ” She looks like a cactus, the way she’s stumbled into the final room of the Nordic burialplace. The undead weren’t a surprise like the first time – she actually screamed – but the archers were still a pain in the ass. Pressing her nose against the note she reads it a third time:

          **“** Dragonborn--  
I need to speak to you. Urgently.  
Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you.  
\--A friend. **”**

Crumpling the note in her fist, Lorin sits down, downs a bunch of healing potions before starting to pluck the arrows out her body. Her jaws clenched, yet screaming in an abandoned ruin, she considers how her life went downhill after the dragons showed up. A wry chuckle and she jumps back up – determined to let this **“** _friend_ **”** pay for taking all those arrows. At least they could’ve pointed out the other way.  

“ Close the door.” Lorin obliges, first tucking the bloody horn away, before she studies the face of the innkeeper again. “Now we can talk. The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn. I hope they're right.”

“So do I.” she mutters sarcastically, earning a glare from the innkeeper, who, seemingly, isn’t an actual innkeeper. “You'd better have a good reason for dragging me here.” 

“It was the only way I could make sure it wasn't a Thalmor trap. I'm not your enemy. I already gave you the horn. I'm actually trying to help you. I just need you to hear me out.” She needs to hold back a chuckle. Thalmor trap. Here the innkeeper, who isn’t an actual innkeeper, is making a mistake. A grave mistake. At this moment, she knows from where she recognized the face. She’s a **Blade**. Better play the game along for now. The fact Delphine – such is her name, could survive for this long indicates that she’s though. Not just though, **fucking** tough. “So what’s the part you’re not telling me?”

“Dragons aren't just coming back; they're coming back to life. They weren't gone somewhere all these years. They were dead, killed off centuries ago by my predecessors. Now something's happening to bring them back to life. And I need you to help me stop it.” _Great. This time a Blade needs her help._  Lorin lifts an eyebrow, “Do you know how crazy this sounds?”

“Ha. A few years ago, I said almost the same thing to a colleague of mine. Well, it turned out he was right and I was wrong.” Delphine chuckles wryly, continues. “We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. If we succeed, I'll tell you anything you want to know.”  _Great! I’m going to kill another dragon!_ She has half a mind to yell it aloud, hysterically. This is not what she signed up for.

"So, where are we headed?"

“Kynesgrove. There's an ancient dragon burial mound there. If we can get there before it happens, maybe we'll learn how to stop it.” She dons her gear – Lorin swears she spotted a Blades insigna somewhere, but she ignores it, for now.

“Let’s stick together.” _Preferably she ends up as a pile of ash, not me._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: this has been consuming my thoughts the past week lol i hate my gay brain. anyways i'm aware that my chapters are short but i'll work on that!!**

* * *

 

Incredulously Lorin stares at the dragon’s flesh growing back. _Yikes._

“Turn that dragon into a **needle** **cushion** , I’ll distract it!” Lorin shouts, drawing her sword and readying a spell. The first few minutes   **(** are it minutes **?** **)**  she mostly spends dodging the fire, convinced her eyebrows are singed.  

“ ** _AAH_** , **_fuck!_** You’re going to **pay** for this, **_fucker!_** ” The heat engulfs her arm and Lorin doesn’t have enough time to pull it back. _IT HURTS. IT HURTS._ She grinds her teeth, and when Sahloknir lands, she charges. “ **TAKE THIS! FUS-RO-DAH!** ” Lorin rams her sword into the dragon’s belly, Sahloknir lets out a terrifying scream. The dragon swishes his tail to and fro, knocking her on the ground. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ She attempts Feim, but her throat burns, **hurts**.

Meanwhile, Sahloknir turns his head, determined to let her join him in death.  An arrow flies past her nose, so close she’d be able to touch it easily, hitting Sahloknir once again – thus preventing him from reducing the Last Dragonborn to a pile of ash. “Whew, that was **close**. Thanks _._ ” _I owe her one, better not turn her immediately out to the Thalmor._

“So you really are... I... it’s true, isn't it? You really are Dragonborn. I owe you some answers, don't I? Go ahead. Whatever you want to know. Nothing held back.” 

“Do you have a healing potion?”   She’s still sprawled out, ungraciously, next to the dragon’s skeleton -  the flesh is gone again and she feels rather light in her head, as if she’s downed argonian bloodwine.   

“ **Really**?”  Delphine tosses one in her direction, and eagerly, she claws for it, the numb, burning pain in her arm fading.   “The first thing we need to do is figure out what's behind the dragons. The Thalmor are our best lead. If they aren't involved, they'll know who is.” Lorin raises a brow, but says nothing. They lay their knowledge on the return of the dragons next to each other, compare and discuss. Delphine’s **(** not hers **)** conclusion is that they must find out who the fuck is behind all of it. 

“If we could get into the Thalmor Embassy... it's the center of their operations in Skyrim... Problem is, that place is locked up tighter than a miser's purse. They could teach me a few things about paranoia...”  She chuckles, carefully considers her words. This would be the perfect opportunity to check on Elenwen – If she’d escape, El must surely have. _Damnit, Lorin, you’re getting soft again._ “Uhhh… I could get in. Could you take care of an invitation?”  

“I'm not sure yet. I have a few ideas, but I'll need some time to pull things together... Meet me back in Riverwood. If I'm not back when you get there, wait for me. I shouldn't be long. Keep an eye on the sky. This is only going to get worse.” The Altmer nods, trotting off as well.

 

 

Before she enters Delphine’s “inn”, she cashes in the golden claw she found a while ago and restocks her healing potions. “I don't think you were followed. Come on. I have a plan.” _Paranoid indeed._ Lorin gestures her to talk.  

“The Thalmor ambassador, Elenwen, regularly throws parties where the rich and connected cozy up to the Thalmor. I can get you into one of these parties. Once you're inside the Embassy, you get away and find Elenwen's secret files. I have a contact inside the Embassy. He's not up for this kind of high-risk mission, but he can help you. His name's Malborn. Wood elf, plenty of reason to hate the Thalmor. You can trust him. I'll get word to him to meet you in Solitude, at the Winking Skeever -- you know it? While you're doing that, I'll work on getting you an invitation to Elenwen's little party. Meet me at the Solitude stables after you've arranged things with Malborn. Any questions?”

 Lorin raises a brow – Elenwen’s never been someone to party and she practically can hear El’s jaw grinding as she dragged her to another party. Once you’d persuade her to drink wine though… She’s lost the count of the amount of times they had sex in one of the back rooms. “I think it’s time for me to tell something as well. I know the Thalmor ambassador personally.” **_Very personally_** , she adds mentally, “I don’t think I need Malborn’s help.” 

Delphine’s suspicion grows, the Altmer sees her hand slipping to her sword, brows raised. “How so?” 

 ** _Shit._** _Better didn’t tell her_. “We grew up together… though I must admit we didn’t get along very well.” Lorin lies smoothly. Delphine drops her guard again, gives her the last instructions, and they’re both off – Lorin back to Whiterun, Delphine to Solitude.


End file.
